Perils birched unto me, braved have I,
Scuttled plenty times, voyages craved have I,
Hollowed of passion raved and raved have I,
And sunk underwater, stars chased have I.

Twilight eyes like alpenglow has been,
Wretched years castle on the hills has seen,
Decrescented long does my moon feels,
And solar meridian demands arduous heaves.

Protests glisten sheen of my eyes… listen,
Come hither in spite of your madness… hasten,
Long has my soul yearned but your lovemakin’,
Into my cadaverous spirit, breathe life in.

Look at my form, love-child, ye lonely and despaired,
Sleep has ruined me, escaped long have I; feared,
Racing grains and glass of times have smeared
Your Lover’s visage, his you-expectant fair.

Blemishes long has endured our curtain,
Dangling in-between us, wounded yet floating,
But scratches severe have I been making
Upon my skin, for you waiting and waiting.

Many fantasies and dreams I have long beheld:
Fingers gliding down… ah curious presents,
Sinuous eyes preying up and down your length,
Like you encased in some fancy museum.

Ask into what my saliva turns to, just ask,
Or ask about what pumps crazy my heart,
Pray ask what snatches away my masks
For when you ask… Silence wins at last.

Intoxicated that night into your street I swayed,
Losing alike now rhythm, hang I by a thread,
Steal this poem before it ends and,
Strip naked, strip bare, this in-between curtain.

Break at once now, tear free and rut,
Seal thine clam-lips on mine, cork them shut,
For dog-barks have pierced my waves’ gut;
To simply put it, I speak too much…

Crackling waves electric upon surface,
Belonging to ocean, free of all oceans.
Envelope let’s at last our worries, desires,
Let’s meld and merge that no one finds us.



Diseased Relief

From the healing of healers,
Pain will not be diseased, right?
Yes, do give me potion but do assure this,
I will not be relieved, right?

،چارہسازوں کی چارہسازی سے
درد بدنام تو نہیں ہوگا۔
،ہاں دوا دو مگر یہ بتلا دو
مجھے آرام تو نہیں ہوگا۔

This is a quatrain by Jaun Elia, translated from Urdu which I.

Until Your Next Return

Breezes in ocean’s breast breed,
Timidly first, ashore they sweep.
Yearning the taste of sentinel sands,
How they then softly dance entranced.
Clawing, crawling, making their way,
Gathering rage against no light of day.
Slivers silver, shimmering under the clouds,
Whirling for the union, they soar about.
Winking and blinking comes Shore in sight,
Rhythm trembles at the faltering of might.
‘My Beloved’s glance acquivers my stance!
‘Makes me melt, to meld with Sands.’

 (A simmer…) | as the Waves’ breaths breathe their end,
(…Immersed) | alongside a kiss, a new life sands give.


My first Sonnet.


،شب و روز بدلتے ہیں پیر و مرشد تیرے
اچھا نہ ہوا خدا نے  جو ولی نہ کیا؟

،قبلہ جو اب ہے درست، یہ سمبھالے رکھ فہد
ولایت سے تو گیا، اب  منافقت سے بھی جاۓ گا کیا؟


Shab-o-roz badalte hain peer-o-murshid tere,
Acha na hua Khuda ne jo wali na kiya?

Qibla jo ab hai durust, yeh sambhale rakh, Fahad,
Wilayat se gaya, ab munafiqat se bhi jayega kia?


Wings Where They Belong


It is easy to find seagulls living in isolation from the company of crows.
Who finds seagulls befriend a crow, frantic at the charity they finally get,
where ultimately the latter flies ways.

The sea is too much a splendor,
broken rooftops reveal greater treasures
save for one who has eyes but no sight.

Paths where clasped hands walk,
from there shoo robins.
One hand with grains pulls a dozen sparrows.

Why cuckoos conceal themselves and sing on branches, I finally know.
It fears not the hawk,
the hawk is much too merciful on the tune.

Why rant of flying when you fly not, you flee?
Jibrael shakes his head at the words you speak.
In reality, these are wings where they belong.

Turn to the pigeons now, revolving round the Ka’aba,
ecstatic like the planets.
Dying echoes of Bilali azaan in their heads.

Painted walls bring a headache, their stench.
It is humbler to perch upon raw brick’s wall.
Or better yet, no walls.


The Exorcism

to ZA

Horrendous compulsions, dreary as void, consummate.
Illuminating paths, all ignis fatuus, I mark and execrate.
Guilty pleasures, filthy measures, make me whole
(Conceal me not but stir and expose me bold)!
Journeyed forth to the Patience Stone and back,
And yet no delight did I find… Alack:
Found but this Alabaster, drenched black in sins.
Change me please, I plead; wanton demons challenge many a rinse.
But mute is this Rock; You are no miracle, I chant!
Empty of veneration, left I at my own command. Continue reading “The Exorcism”

Withering Agent

Let the dust and smoke of this world collapse into your lungs.

Do not from it repulse. They are not enough of withering agents.


The real one is the barren desert, still and empty,

that dwells inside one – a possible breeding ground.


It is not the barrenness of that place that makes it barren.

Only the perception of that barrenness as barren.



We are standing there

from where, news of our own self

does not to us come.


… Dying in desire

for death. Death keeps appearing,

alas, does not come.


With what face will you

be reaching Lord’s house? Shame till

you yet does not come.

ہم وہاں ہیں جہاں سے ہم کو بھی
کچھ ہماری خبر نہیں آتی

مرتے ہیں آرزو میں مرنے کی
موت آتی ہے پر نہیں آتی

کعبہ کس منہ سے جاؤ گے غالبؔ

.شرم تم کو مگر نہیں آتی

Made a little haiku poem out of last 3 stanzas of Mirza Ghalib’s legendary ode – which coincidentally – terrifically – reflects my current state of devastation.

Scathed Susurrus

Night maunders thick,

Blotched with dim-lit stars that yet bother to strain.

Barking, howling dogs; crickets chirping in distance,

Dreary streets lit only by sullen lights

Of not the moonless sky.


Heaths lay bleared;

Some anchor is this night – its very air awry.

A grim reminder of a once successful transaction,

Now beyond expiration

(26th’s marked on the calendar; oh now I see, now I see).


With vile breath,

I taint the air murmuring your name.

A name so divine – chunk of lead on my tongue –

Gulped by the leering air around –

Left behind are trails of scathed susurrus now.


Glistening tears simmer,

Underneath sheaths of these wretched eyes

That once worked like that of a basilisk,

Snuffed out vapid are now, like that of a man blind;

Lonely I’d lie again tonight.

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